


Saltwater and Desperation

by bacondoughnut



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Drowning, Dysfunctional Family, Family Feels, Hurt Jason Todd, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Gets A Hug, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Near Death Experiences, One Shot, Protective Bruce Wayne, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:29:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26189527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacondoughnut/pseuds/bacondoughnut
Summary: Jason's not sure how he even manages to get himself out of the harbor. He's just glad Bruce is there when he does. Not that he'll ever, ever admit as much out loud.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 399





	Saltwater and Desperation

Fucking harbor. Fucking sledgehammer. Fucking god damn _water._

There's this weight, and it's so much heavier than the water that currently clings to his clothes, and it tugs at his limbs. More than that, it yanks relentlessly. Dragging him down towards the earth. The siren call of the ether, of dark and rest and cold.

The ether's a bitch.

But he's been here before. Well, not _here_ exactly, but here. More times than he can count. It's how he knows he can't stop here, can't let the gravity and the night take hold of him. Not yet, not here.

He wills himself to take another step and then another. He's not sure what's muddier, his boots or his brain.

His legs wobble treacherously beneath him. More fucking water dripping out his suit and his boots and splashing onto the concrete below. He knees buckle about twenty yards from the streetlight and he just keeps himself from falling. Looks like a parking lot. Empty.

He's alone.

Jason heaves a sigh of relief and he relishes the sharp sting in his sinuses as he does. Hurt is good. It means he's alive.

Won't be for long, if he can't find a way out of here before those guys come looking. Making sure he didn't, in fact, manage to drag himself out of the harbor they so creatively dunked him in. At least it's not raining tonight. He's had enough fucking wet for tonight.

There's a gag still pressing persistently into his mouth, saturated with blood and saliva and god damn salt.

He can't feel his domino on his face anymore. Could be that his skin's just gone numb from the cold. Could be the water washed it away, but it was on when he went in. They only took his helmet to make sure he didn't have some built in oxygen mechanism, that's his best guess. Secret identities don't tend to matter once you're dead.

His legs give out on him right about there. He lands shoulder-first on a concrete parking block. Because of course he does.

Their shitty gag doesn't manage to muffle his grunt of pain. Not that he should be relying on a gag for that, he ought to be able to keep quiet on his own. Not like he hasn't had worse. It's stupid and it's going to give him away.

If that doesn't, the incessant rattling of the chains will when he thrashes against them. Nothing gives. Nothing fucking gives.

Jason swears. Or he intends to, anyway. The fabric on his tongue has different plans. As if tonight wasn't crap enough already, he's being censored by a wad of cotton.

He gives standing back up another try but he can't figure out how he did it the first time around. The asphalt is still hot from the day's sun, and the warmth and the solid are too inviting against his battered, numb face.

Through the torpor he's slowly succumbing to, he catches the steady drum of boots on pavement. Fuck, fuck, shit.

He can't fight like this.

He won't die like this.

He rolls out of the circle of light as best as he's able. Pushes his face against the parking block in the hopes of moving the gag. All he gets for the effort is concrete burn on his cheek. A mouth so full of blood he has to swallow more of it to breath. Although that second bit might not be wholly thanks to the parking block.

He didn't think standing the hell up was such a high request for a pair of legs, given that's what they're job is supposed to be. But his have chosen to take the rest of the night off, apparently.

Jason gets himself halfway up before hitting the pavement again, somehow harder this time around.

A hand touches his left shoulder, and he throws his head backwards in an attempted headbutt. Exhausted and useless as he is, he misses entirely. The touch vanishes anyway.

"It's just me, kiddo. I got you."

Bruce. It's only Bruce.

Bruce, who helps him up with steady, careful hands and quiet, reassuring words. And Jason aches to tell him to shut up, or not to be so patronizing, or something. But he can't say much of anything, and even if he could, he doesn't know if he has it in him. His shoulders are already betraying him, joining everything else in going numb so he sags forward into Bruce's stupid arms.

Bruce, who hugs him tight. Which probably has more to do with warming him up than offering any form of comfort. But, god help him, even with the gag still cutting painfully into his cheeks and the water running down his neck and the asphalt pushing up against his aching knees, he feels obscenely safe just there.

He's allowed himself to be held for long enough. Probably too long, if he's being honest.

He tries to speak, although he's not sure what. And it doesn't matter. The best he can manage through the blood and the muffling, soaked cotton is one fucking pathetic whimper.

Bruce's arms disappear. He reels for just a second at the loss of support, narrowly avoiding another collision with the ground.

He leans forward as Bruce slips a utility knife under the gag at the back of his head. Carefully cutting it. Which Jason allows for about a second before tugging forward. The pain shoots up anew through his face. It's an odd sort of accompaniment to the numbness still present in his nose and cheeks. A wonder that the two can coexist so thoroughly.

Bruce clears his throat. An instruction without words.

It's against everything in his nature, but he stills. Swallows the urge to fight or thrash or do something other than let Bruce take care of him.

It can't be more than another few seconds. It feels like an hour. Finally, mercifully, the gag splits.

Jason doesn't think to stifle the pained yelp or the desperate gasp of air as Bruce gently pries the soaked rag away from his face until he's already done it.

He spits a mass of blood and fucking mucous onto the asphalt. Still doesn't have the hands to wipe away the glob of that blood, saliva, mucous mixture that clings to his lower lip and trickles down his chin. Still doesn't have the clarity of mind to care. He's far too focused on breathing.

Heaving, really. Ragged breath after ragged breath. Who knew shitty, smoggy Gotham air could taste so sweet?

His lungs and throat burn with it and he can't quite get the taste of drowning, of saltwater and desperation, from out of his mouth. He spits more blood out onto the asphalt.

"Fuck," he says, because he can finally, and his voice breaks with it.

There's the distant boat horn sounding out on the harbor. He suddenly becomes all too aware of the chains still pressing into his wrists, cutting off the circulation to his fingers, restricting his motion. He can feel the padlock resting just at his palm, keeping his wrists bound at the small of his back, and if he had the time or the mind for it he could probably figure out the combination.

Unfortunately, all he can do right now is flail. He tugs hopelessly at the metal, as if maybe he could break it. As if he can just jerk his arms free with willpower alone. Willpower's done a lot for him before.

He repeats breathlessly, "Fuck! Fuck, fucking fuck."

He thrashes until Bruce has to put a steadying hand at his arm to keep him from faceplanting again. He squeezes Jason's bicep gently until Jason finally focuses enough to stop squirming and look at him.

"I can pick the lock," Bruce reminds him steadily.

Jason gives it one last useless tug, then hisses, "Fucking do it then."

Normally he's more than justified in snapping at Bruce, he knows right now isn't one of those instances. He doesn't mean to do it. But he can't get loose and he can't get up and he can't control it.

Bruce looks like he understands as he gets back to his feet, swiftly moving to kneel back down behind Jason. There's a hand at his wrist and the metallic click of the combination pieces and Bruce is asking, "Who did this to you?"

"Dead men walking," he spits.

And Bruce doesn't even comment, he just keeps working.

The wind howls as it plays across the harbor too short of a distance away. It's the water laughing cruelly at him.

It sends another burst of panic through him and it's all he can do to keep from thrashing again. Wait for Bruce. Trust Bruce. That's almost more frightening than the water.

He feels the lock click open and he's shaking his hands frantically to wriggle the chain loose from his wrists. A fresh shock of pain webs out from his elbows, which have been stiff and useless and aching up until now. And at least this time when he falls, he has his hands to catch himself with before he can plant his face in the pavement again.

Bruce is slinging Jason's arm across his shoulder. Hauling him up onto two feet.

He's more than grateful for the way Bruce doesn't comment on how little of his own weight he carries when they start to walk. Now he's upright the weight begins to draw at him again.

The ether's still a bitch, but he thinks maybe now's the right time to answer the siren call. His eyelids feels just as heavy as the rest of him.

"Stay with me a little longer," Bruce nudges. "Just 'till we get to the car. Can you do that for me?"

Maybe it's the rebel in him, but he feels his muscles sag as he succumbs to the darkness.

* * *

The steady hum of the Batmobile engine is like a heartbeat. He feels uncharacteristically calm when he wakes up in the passenger seat, slumped against the door like back when he was just Robin, falling asleep on the way home from patrol. Or maybe it's just the almost drowning catching up with him.

He doesn't know how Bruce does it. His eyes aren't open more than a second before he's asking, "How're you feeling?"

"'m alive."

"What happened?"

Bruce's tone falls somewhere between a 'Mission report?' and a 'Tell me you're okay.' Of the two, Jason's only confident in his ability to answer the former. He doesn't know what might come out of his mouth if he gets into that other area. He's shown Bruce enough weakness for tonight.

It doesn't help much that he has to answer, "Lost a fight."

"I gathered that," Bruce says, not unkindly. Or maybe there's seawater in Jason's brain.

"Came to with a chain 'round my ankle, getting shot across the damn dock," he says. He's distantly aware of the water dripping from his hair down the back of his neck. It sends a shiver down his spine. "You fill in the blanks."

Bruce spares a look over at him before his gaze is back on the road. Jason can't much be bothered to push himself away from the door he's shouldered up against. However long he was out just now, it wasn't long enough.

"How'd you get loose?"

"Not really sure," he answers honestly.

Everything's a blur, from the dock to the wet to the parking lot. Some sort of a weight was tied to the chain at his ankle. A cinderblock or something, seems like the most likely option. It explains the distant thrum at his left ankle. A hollow and insignificant sensation when everything else already feels so heavy.

He must've pried the chain off somehow. Dragged himself out of the brine on willpower alone.

He tries to remember more and all his soggy brain can seem to supply him with is dark and cold and panic and wet. The way his lungs burned at the lack of oxygen is clear as a bell. The desperation clawing at him to not give in here is a familiar enough memory. The rest is hazy.

Bruce matches Jason's honesty with a truth of his own.

"I'm just glad you did."

It pierces right through the fog that's slowly beginning to cloud his mind. Is it more unsettling for Bruce to come right out and say it, or that Jason actually believes him? Fuck, he's drained.

"Stupid fucking way to kill a man," he remarks.

Because it is. And because, if he doesn't, Bruce might see the way his hands shake in his lap. Just from the cold, he tells himself. But hell, it's Bruce, he's probably already noticed.

"I can't argue with that."

Bruce reaches a hand towards the dash. Turning the heater up, Jason realizes with an irritable flicker of gratitude.

He can breathe a little easier with the warmth eating steadily away against the freezing wet that still clings to him like a second skin. He can't quite will his shoulders to give up their shivering. But he gets a better handle on the telltale tremble of his fingers.

His eyes close again of their own volition. He wills himself to stay awake.

* * *

It's a short drive back to the Batcave. Jason manages to keep conscious the rest of the way, but he doesn't manage much beyond that.

Bruce asks the occasional question, but he doesn't have it in him to give more than a one or two word answer. Eventually even that fails him and all he offers is a simple grunt of acknowledgement.

His boots squelch as he steps out of the Batmobile.

He catches Bruce telling him to wait but he doesn't listen. Can't listen. He's accepted too much help tonight already. Shown too much weakness. This is fine. He's fine.

He braces himself against the roof of the car when he feels himself begin to sway. There's a sinking feeling in his gut. One that feels too much like shooting off of a dock into the water, like sinking into the depths below it, like flinching at the swing of a crowbar. Almost dying sucks almost as much as dying does.

"Jason."

He hears his name but can't will himself to answer to it.

There's a puddle of saltwater steadily dripping onto the Batcave floor. A draft blows through the cave and it threatens to knock him off his feet. Without the car heater he's sure he's begun to shiver again.

He turns to lean his back against the car door instead. Freeing up his hands so he can curl his fingers around his wrist.

It starts as an attempt to rub some of the rawness from the chains away, but then he's just pressing into his wrist to feel it. He pushes his fingers beneath the sleeve of his suit and squeezes until his fingernails leave little crescent moons in his skin and his breath hitches. The pressure an anchoring reminder that he's here.

"Jason," Bruce is saying again. And since when is he standing there? When did he take the cowl off?

He thinks on nights like these he prefers Batman to Bruce, if only because with Batman he's spared having to guess at the meaning behind stares.

"I'm good," Jason says, snapping back to attention. He can't quite bring himself to drop his wrist, though.

Bruce eyes him skeptically. Says, "I think Alfred should check you over."

Which is totally sound advice to give a guy who was nearly drowned. It's not advice Jason wants to hear right now nonetheless.

He can maybe handle one person needling him for answers or pushing him to take better care of himself. Two is too many. And Alfred has a way of cutting through all your defenses. Not necessarily in a bad way, in fact it's usually oddly refreshing. But Jason's already been defenseless far too much tonight. It's not a feeling he wants to revisit.

"I really just wanna go to sleep," he says. "I'm tired."

It must be a dead giveaway that he admits as much without sarcasm or pretense.

Bruce hesitates and Jason's momentarily terrified he's about to argue. Or worse, ask him if he's okay again. He so doesn't need a therapy session or a lecture right now.

Instead Bruce sighs and says, "Okay, he can look you over in the morning."

Jason's shoulders slump in relief.

"Thank you," he finds himself saying, and he doubts it's just for not involving Alfred.

"Let's get you upstairs."

He lets himself be guided upstairs, if only because it's where he wants to go anyway. He'll rationalize it away later as the guest room at the manor simply being much, much closer than his bed at the shithole apartment he's currently leasing. It's got nothing to do with the relative safety slowly seeping back into these walls.

Bruce lays out some clean clothes for him on the foot of the bed and ducks out of the room. Jason figures he's off to turn in himself. It's no doubt been a long night for him to.

He wrestles out of his jacket and feels a hundred pounds lighter. When he undoes his first boot a pool of saltwater and mud sloshes out onto the carpeted floor. He'll apologize to Alfred for it later. He grits his teeth as he yanks the second boot off. His socks follow, and he blinks at his ankle, mottled with bruises. No doubt just like the rest of him.

Frankly, he doesn't have the energy to worry about where he puts his body armor or his jacket and boots. He's just relieved to be free of them.

The sweatpants and t-shirt provided for him feel like a comforting embrace as he tugs them over his aching limbs. There's a sweatshirt on the foot of the bed that doesn't belong to him. It's older than the rest of the clothes, too. Not something they bought in case he visits. It's the old college sweatshirt he stole from Bruce what feels like a century ago.

He wonders if accepting it will be considered losing somehow.

It's not a symbol of anything, he reminds himself. Not a peace offering or an anchor. Just a sweatshirt.

He pulls it on and the dry warmth of the fabric seems to banish away all the wet, cold death that would've chewed him up and spit him out tonight. If not for Bruce.

He can't muster up the energy to actually get up and climb under the covers so he sits there. Thinking. Dwelling.

His mind wanders back to what would've happened if Bruce hadn't been there tonight. He might've got himself out of there just fine. If his legs had a little while longer to get their feeling back he's sure he could've gotten back up. It's what he does. He gets back up.

Only he knows from painful experience that getting back up isn't always enough.

Sometimes you take a beating and get back up despite gravity, despite the brittleness of your bones, despite the siren call, you get back up. And sometimes the bomb goes off anyway. The universe laughs in the face of your getting back up. It engulfs you and clings and drags you down, down to the bottom of the depths of the ocean floor.

He flinches. There's a knock at the door.

"Come in," he says with a hint of confusion.

Bruce is back.

He's carrying a mug. Holding it out towards Jason and saying, "I know you said you wanted to sleep, but I think this might help."

He's accepted too much help.

"Thanks."

His fingers curl around the ceramic of the mug and he breaths the steam and the scent of chamomile and lemon. It banishes the cold and chips away at the unease building in his gut. He lets his eyes slide shut.

The mattress dips at his side and he waits for Bruce to say something. Press him for details or offer some patronizing remarks of pity or something. But he doesn't, he just sits there. Which is worse and such a relief all at once. And Jason figures he can get away with leaning over just a little. He has his exhaustion as an excuse, and besides, he's already given away so much weakness tonight. What's one more minute of it?

Jason can never get one more minute of anything.

Bruce looks sideways at him. Asks simply, "Are you okay?"

It's a stupid question and they both know it.

He hits back with a stupid answer.

"Aren't I always?"

Of course not. He hasn't been okay in a long time.

Bruce gives him a look but otherwise doesn't respond. Jason thinks he would prefer an angry lecture. Because Bruce's eyes just look so sad, he doesn't know what to do with it. Here he was worried about Alfred, and it's Bruce who sees right through him.

Jason clears his throat a little awkwardly and sips at the tea.

He can feel the warmth of it against his sore throat right down to his stomach. It's grounding. It pacifies the relentless back and forth in his head, harbor to here, to focus on just the heat emanating from the ceramic against his palms. The steam warming the still numb bridge of his nose.

He thinks he ought to be making an excuse to get Bruce to leave. Comment on how he wants to go to sleep or something along those lines. Only he doesn't want to be alone.

He doesn't want to talk, exactly, either.

Bruce, miraculously, unexpectedly, seems to just get it. He lapses back into silence and doesn't so much as flinch when Jason's water addled brain convinces him it's okay to rest his weary head on Bruce's shoulder.

It's only when his eyes are starting to close of their own accord that Bruce stirs. He catches the half empty mug just as Jason's grip loosens. Where it would've spilled and maybe even shattered, it instead only splashes a measly few drops onto the already wet carpet.

"Alfred's gonna kill me," Jason mutters, eyes on the saltwater stain slowly seeping deeper and deeper into the floor.

"He'll give you a moderately disapproving look at the most."

"That's worse."

A hint of a smile flickers across Bruce's face, and Jason makes a note to resent him for it in the morning. Until then, he doesn't protest when Bruce pulls the top corner of the sheets back and gestures for Jason to get into bed.

He's nearly out before his head even hits the pillow.

"G'night, Bruce," Jason mumbles.

Those are the simplest words he can think of to convey everything. He's not wholly sure they do, but Bruce nods anyway.

"Goodnight, Jason."


End file.
